


Your Voice, It Carries

by ssleif



Series: Circle High and Paint the Sky [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: A little bit also, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Assuming there ever is a chapter 2, Cunnilingus, Edging, F/M, How was there not already a tag for this threesome, I mean I know she canonically dies before we meet Jaskier, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Threesome - F/M/M, Voyeurism, also tags for, am I alone here??????, anyway this is established couple inviting a third, but oh boy can you tell how new the netflix fandom still is, if i'm the first one to add this particular ot3 fic to AO3, threesome proper only in chapter 2, when he's a teen or younger, where renfri didn't have to die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:56:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23406394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssleif/pseuds/ssleif
Summary: Geralt and Renfri, traveling together these ten years, pick up a bard in Posada. That's it. That's the fic. You know which bard.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Renfri | Shrike, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Renfri | Shrike/Jaskier | Dandelion, Renfri | Shrike/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Circle High and Paint the Sky [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1622518
Comments: 10
Kudos: 95
Collections: Explicit Stories





	Your Voice, It Carries

**Author's Note:**

> Uh, so Witchertrashbag’s masturbation!monday was the kick in the pants I needed to get this bit out, especially with the suggestion of a third person jerking off while watching an established couple. That's it. That's the whole fic so far.
> 
> My friends, there is more promised clearly, so there may be another chapter, but this bit has the masturbation, and it was all I had in me tonight. Hope it’s a little fun, at least. ;) Ho boy, did I ever NOT mean for this to be 3.5k+. 
> 
> also you don't have to read the other in the series before reading this. The other one's less than a thousand words that TLDR renfri does not force geralt to kill her, geralt finds her later, she ends up figuring that witchering is a good outlet for her bloodlust and rage. They team up.

Near ten years into their partnership (which was not to imply that they were always together, they definitely weren’t. After the first year, it had been more than time to take a break, and they had parted one winter for a time, he to Kaer Morhen and She finally back to Kovir, just to scout things out, and then settled into a pattern where, though they spent the better part of each year on the path together, they were quite comfortable taking the occasional separate job, or separate lover, or just a private ramble for a few weeks or months elsewhere. They always seemed to find each other again, in good time for some of the larger hunts. Geralt suspected some bullshit destiny was involved, but he didn’t mind the effects particularly, so he didn’t put up much of a fight…)

They were seated at a table in a tavern one afternoon in Posada, eating their combined weight in whatever the kitchen could provide, after a satisfactory conclusion to their last hunt, a nice purse, and a decent ride to get to the next nexus of potential Witcher employment.

There was a bard at this tavern, and Geralt was ignoring him. Renfri had caught Geralt looking, had probably figured out it was that singing which had first drawn Geralt, with his particular hearing, to this particular tavern, and when she caught him, she raised her eyebrows in query. A little genuine, a little mocking.

It wouldn’t have been the first time one or the other of them had spotted a particular person who caught their fancy, and invited such a person back to their room. Sometimes it was a solo endeavor, but many many times they’d been successful in turning it into a group affair. As it turned out, he and Renfri were both partial to many folk outside their socially-proscribed opposite gender, and even had fairly compatible tastes.

This bard was a bit unusual, not because he was atypical for Geralt’s tastes, but more because he didn’t particularly follow a type at all. He had a beautiful voice, and a soft face, striking lovely eyes, and a gaudy costume… but he was nearly as tall as Geralt, not particularly slight, and his doublet and tunic both were open enough at the neck to betray copious amounts of body hair. And the way his fingers moved across the strings of his lute made Geralt’s pants feel tight, even as he lewdly tripped along over bawdy lyrics that should not sound anything like songbirds. And yet.

So as Renfri, he could smell, was getting just as keyed up as he was, and clearly in a teasing mood, he got over his initial embarrassment at being caught out and decided to play along. He steadfastly ignored the young troubadour all together, refusing to smile at the ridiculous lyrics, pretending hardly to notice him at all… and when the music finally stopped, Renfri smirked, and the Bard picked his way across to them. 

Jaskier was a bit put out at the reception his last piece had garnered, but hey, at least he had free dinner, he thought, as he collected the various foodstuff that had been lobbed his way. At least he had a free dinner and… oh. Yes. She was still looking at him.

They were a striking couple. Normally, Jaskier had enough sense not to pursue anyone so obviously partnered off. Why waste the effort, when it could be invested in more likely ground?

But even had the man and the woman seated in the corner not been two of the most beautiful people he’s ever had the luck to serenade, and so, so different, with all the black of their attire (and it looked a surprisingly true black. Were that color present on a noble, he would inquire after its cost and maintenance, but by the dust on their leathers and boots, it seemed clear neither placed much value on the appearance and fine-ness of the garb…).

Even had they not been beautiful, and even had he not wanted to casually inquire as to their sources/tailors/knowledge of dyes… the way _she_ had been smirking at him, and the way her companion had been so decidedly not…

He had to go over.

A mug of ale, Casual Lean against the pillar, an opening line directed, hmm, at the man, he thought. Maybe safest.

“I love the way you just sit in the corner and brood.”

The fair haired, _white-haired_ Jaskier could see now up closer, man barely spared a glance from his meal.

“We’re here to drink alone.”

Okay.

“Good. Yeah, good, only you said ‘we’, which hardly implies alone.”

No response, save the woman smiling a little, into her own mug. He tried again, stepping a little closer to their table. They were seated, backs against the wall, on the same side, the woman in the corner, so there was a whole bench available, if he dared. Which, of course he did.

“No one else hesitated to comment on the quality of my performance, except,” Jaskier gingerly sat down, but neither objected, “For you.”

Still no response. He set his own mug down delicately, the better to gesture without.

“Come on, you don’t want to keep a man with-” what? Don’t say bread, don’t say bread, say anything but “bread in his pants waiting?”

Oh gods. He was gonna crash and burn, and they were going to eat him. Stay calm, Jask, you can do this.

  
The bard gestured flamboyantly. 

“You must have some review for me... three words or less.”

Geralt controlled his face, and gritted out: 

“They don’t exist.”

He could almost swear he heard Renfri’s ribs creaking, with how hard she was suppressing the urge to giggle at Geralt’s pedantry and the bard’s put out dramatics. If he had a hat with a feather, the feather would be drooping.

“What don’t exist?” 

An edge in his tone, and the smile was gone.

“The creatures in your song.”

Geralt carefully did not meet the young man’s accusatory gaze, or linger lower, on the slight pout of his mouth, or lower, on the tufts of hair playing peek-a-boo with the neck line of his tunic.

Fuck.

“And how would you know?”

Geralt steadfastly said nothing. If the little prick hadn’t put two and two together yet, perhaps this was it. He would realize what Geralt was, who they were, and he would sensibly flee.

Instead, a look of glee crossed the Bard’s face and he nearly drummed his hands on the table in excitement.

“Oh fun. White hair, yellow eyes, uh, is that… is that blood on your shirt, there, milady? And fur, and… well. That looks a bit like entrails, still sticking to the leather there on your, your two very scary looking swords…”

The bard had clearly put it together, but Geralt, impossibly, smelled the lust on the young man rise. He began to stand, and Renfri, having played this game before, hid her grin, and made a show of putting her hand on his arm and looking stern, as if censuring him. And the now-somewhat-antsy bard made his guess.

“I know who you are. You, you’re a witcher. The Witcher…” he swallowed, suddenly clearly thinking better of his phrasing “Geralt of Rivia. And that would make you,” he turned a little to face Renfri head-on “the sh- Renfri. That would make you Renfri.” An eyebrow lifted, and Renfri let herself grin. With just a little too much tooth. “Called it.”

Renfri leaned back into the corner, hands locking behind her head, legs crossed and stretching out out out. Geralt could hear the shift of fabric and leather as she nudged the bard’s feet out of the way, under the table. He watched the way the bard flushed a little, and his keen eyes danced briefly down the length of her body, before bouncing up again. The muggy smell of aroused doubled.

“And what, little bardling, brings you to us, if we are as,” she pouted a little, “fearsome as all that, then?”

The bard swallowed, but his scent did not dampen.

“Ah, milady, I noted that… Well, that is, I saw… “ It was Geralt’s turn to fight back a grin, at the position Renfri’d put him in. The bard clearly didn’t want to outright say he’d caught her watching him, seen the invitation there, not while he couldn’t yet know if the two of them had the kind of arrangement or relationship that would preclude such behavior on her part. And yet, here she was, blatantly asking him to do just that, and risk whatever response might be evoked from a potentially large and angry spouse. The bard squirmed a little, and then squared his shoulders, only just peeking at Geralt from the corner of his eye.

“I surmised that I, perhaps, was wanted. Invited.” He sat there, a little stiffly, clearly braced for whatever way Geralt might react.

Renfri relaxed her arms, letting one slide down to lie her hand on Geralt’s thigh, instinctively avoiding, yes, it was probably blood on his trousers, too, and letting the other rest back on the table. “And if you were, little bard? What have you to offer? Why would _we_ want you?”

His scent flared again, and Geralt suddenly found he was done with the game, at that confirmation that yes, indeed, the bard was up for both of them.

“Uh, I-” But Geralt stood suddenly, interrupting whatever resumé he was clearly scrambling to put together in the face of his lust. “Oh, no, I, don’t g-”

And as Renfri slid off the bench behind him, and started for their horses, (this particular tavern had no rooms to let, nor did it offer anything in the way of baths, so they’d planned on actually taking a room a little further up the road, before Geralt stopped for the music), Geralt leaned forward, down down, into the bard’s space and said, very quietly, but with as much promise as he could muster: “I’m not going to bed you in front of all these people.”

He finally let himself smirk as he heard the bard scrambling to gather his lute and other effects behind him.

Very very sure he’d be followed, Geralt also made his way towards the door.

  
Their departure was interrupted by a farmer, who overheard just enough of the exchange, apparently, and, well, devils don’t exist, so it was probably easy coin, right? They could delay their personal gratification a little for that.

It was not easy coin.

The bard did follow them, though, so that was something. Unfortunately, the “something” was “all three tied up while a small cadre of Elves kick the shit out of them”.

Once they finally did argue their way free, the bard was the only human of the trio, anyway, they knew they couldn't go straight back to Posada, not and give any good accounting of themselves, so with the Bard walking along happily enough, for one who’d been through what they all had (and didn’t have the extra resilience of a Daughter of the Eclipse or a Son of Kaer Morhen), they rode gently but steadily until near dusk, and found a good spot by a stream to pitch a camp for the night. 

Geralt found the insouciance of the bard’s fiction-singing obnoxious, but he had to admit the tune itself was catchy. And the little warbler could carry a tune, that was definitely true. Still, it was a relief when they stopped for the evening, and Geralt began to set up for a small fire, clear space for their bedrolls… and Renfri, as unreserved as ever, when she felt safe to be, immediately began stripping to go wash the blood and dirt off. 

The bard stopped with a sour note.

Geralt peeked up to see the young man, Jaskier, Jaskier was the name he’d given Filivandrel, staring open-mouthed before self-consciously turning away a bit and looking elsewhere, loudly picking out an aimless tune on his instrument, and appearing uncomfortable.

“Bard,” Geralt directed, “If you are indeed going to camp with us, then go find some heavier firewood before you wash. It’s deceptively arid in this region— it will get cold tonight without the fire.”

Jaskier gaped a moment, possibly at how many words Geralt had said in a row, directly to him, before composing himself, laying down the lute with careful dignity, stripping off his (worse for the wear) doublet, and striding off into the trees.

  
Geralt and Renfri were both in the water, and “helping each other wash” which involved a lot more groping and showing off than it normally did, when Jaskier returned and, hesitantly, stripped and joined them, keeping a respectful distance, and his back half-turned in deference, Geralt presumed, to Renfri’s bare breasts. She laughed, light, and, splashing Geralt again, started on their clothing, rinsing out or wiping off the worst of the blood, but sparing their small clothes, which had mostly survived (and would be more comfortable than being bare as their outer layers dried, but might yet become further mussed before the evening was over).

“Ah, I meant to ask, “ Jaskier piped up, “Your clothes are very… distinctive. However do you manage such a deep black?” 

“Monster shit.” Geralt answered, without missing a beat.

Jaskier turned in surprise, froze at Renfri’s nearness and nakedness, and turned back to a particularly stubborn trail of blood that had run down his neck and dried in the hair just under his clavicle. Geralt was a little mesmerized by all the hair, actually. The desire to touch it, to rub his face in it like he does Renfri’s when he takes her in his mouth, was pretty strong.

“He jests, Bard. It would smell worse even than it does, if that was the case.”

Jaskier let out a breath.

“Oh good.”

Renfri shook her head a little.

“It _is_ due to the monsters, though. Many of the things we hunt bleed other things than blood, or at least their blood is far from red. Even should we have the opportunity to clean ourselves immediately, it still usually stains.”

Geralt hummed, finished washing himself, and found he was very much ready to move on to the next phase of the evening.

“I embraced it many years ago—” he’s offering something to the bard, and he knows it, wonders if Jaskier understood, “you get a better reception when your entire garment is the same color. So whenever I acquire new items…”

“Oh,” said Jaskier. “Ick.”

“Ichor, actually.” Geralt corrected with a smirk, finally stepping free of the water, and bending to retrieve his smallclothes from the rock he’d laid them on.

He could hear the bard sputter behind him for a moment, and then the splashing as the man followed him out.

“You! That was a pun! You really do jest!”

“Bard,” Renfri cautioned, with a clear smile in her voice, “You still have blood behind your right ear.”

Jaskier splashed back into the water.

When Jaskier finally pulled his damp-but-not-dirty self back to the little clearing where he’d deposited all the deadfall he could find (and haul without assistance. Or an axe), things were… not as he expected. He… he’d expected they would eat next? He had some rations (and pants-bread) in his pack, and he knew Geralt and Renfri had restocked in case their paths lead them away from Posada, evidently they were well experienced with the turn a hunt could take that necessitated one… not returning to the issuer of the contract. 

Well, technically Geralt and Renfri were eating, but they…

They were all over each other. Renfri would feed Geralt a strip of dried meat, and he’d tear a piece off, flashing his teeth right against her fingers, chewing with a lazy half-open grin. She was sitting in his lap and she still didn’t have a shirt on, and Geralt reached around her to his pack on the groud, stretching out all the long lean muscles of his back, grabbed a handful of berries from a pouch, and began popping them into her mouth, one at a time, letting her lick any stray juice from his fingers, suck on them a little. She playfully nipped at his thumb, and he mock-glared at her. 

Jaskier was _so_ _hard_.

He thought he’d maybe never been this turned on, and not doing anything about it, in his entire life. 

His hand strayed to his groin, but then he paused, unsure if it was welcome. It _had_ to be welcome, how else was he supposed to interpret this, but at the same time…

Renfri slid her hand into Geralt’s loose hair, close to his scalp, and fisted it, tipping his head back and holding him in place as she passed him back a berry she’d been holding lightly between her teeth.

Jaskier was _so_ touching himself. Oh gods, had his own fist ever felt this good?

“That hard up, bard? That you can’t wait?” came Renfri’s smirking, teasing voice, only slightly muffled by the heated aircurrents of the little fire still separating them, 

Oh he really was-- he had nearly a death grip on himself, one stroke, two, still just over the cloth that covered his erection, but even that, he found, with her teasing voice and two sets of eyes on him, even that was enough to push him closer than expected. He felt like he might actually be manually holding back his climax.

“I don’t know, Renfri,” came Geralt’s voice next, deep and rough with (what, passion? Berries? Smoke? _Melitele’s_ _tits_ but it was a nice voice like this), “if he can’t even last until he’s undressed…”

“Aw,” Renfri laughed, “Maybe we should go easy on him.”

Jaskier didn’t know what that meant. They had, clearly, been teasing him, winding him up since his damn performance in Posada, so he thought the desperation was a little justified, but his pride warred with his desire to please and be pleased…

“Perhaps,” Geralt agreed, “he’d better just watch the first time.”

Oh. _Oh_. Oh yes. Oh this, Jaskier could definitely do. 

“Take a seat, bard, if you think you can handle that much,” Renfri instructed, and by the time he’d dumped his (already plenty dirty) trousers onto a fallen log (that had NOT been there when Jaskier had last been near the area) near the couple, to save his bare legs from the bark, they were already nearly naked, Geralt bare as a (very scarred) babe, kneeling on a blanket on the ground, and Renfri standing, right foot on the ground, holding on to Geralt’s shoulders for balance, as he ran his big rough hands down the length of her left leg, pulling free the last of her clothing, baring her to both of them.

Jaskier scarcely had his prick out, when Geralt sat back on his heels, shoved her legs farther apart, and buried his face between them.

Jaskier tried not to gasp, not sure how vocal they wanted him to be, but he couldn’t help a little low moan as Renfri gripped Geralt’s head again, pulling him back and away juuust enough for Jaskier to see what his tongue was doing. At the sound of his moan, Renfri vocalised as well, tipped Geralt’s head more firmly back, and began to ride his face in earnest.

Jaskier had come back from the edge a little while plotting how not to end the evening with splinters in his arse, but he felt himself sliding inexorably towards it again, as he watched Geralt slide the hand not curved around Renfri’s bottom down his own torso to lazily take himself in hand.

The slick sounds Jaskier’s activities were making, as he striped himself, must have eventually attracted the Witcher’s attention, too, because Geralt glanced over after a few long moments, smiled a little even as Renfri continued to make use of his mouth, and reached a little lower, playing with his balls a bit, before sliding his middle finger even further back. 

Jaskier groaned, and then muffled the rest of the sound by biting into the meat of his free hand, when the moan threatened to turn into a whimper.

“Are you that close, bard?” panted Renfri, lovely pert little breasts bouncing gently with her movements, skin just begining to shine in the moon and firelight as she started to sweat with arousal and exertion.

Jaskier gasped a little himself, and nodded quickly, looking for permission.

She grinned, and her teeth flashed.

“Don’t come yet, Bard.”

Jaskier pulled his hand from his mouth to tug on his balls, other hand slowing, trying to obey.

“Can you smell him, Geralt? That wet already— he must stink to high-heaven.” 

Jaskier privately doubted Geralt could smell anything but Renfri, with her slick spread all over his face like that, but Geralt hummed and nodded, and Renfri shivered.

“Give me your fingers, Geralt,” She instructed, and Jaskier almost had to look away as that big hand stopped its personal ministrations, slid so gently up up up, wrist flexed back, middle two fingers on offer. Renfri met him, took them in, and began to encourage a rhythm. Jaskier could see where Geralt’s thumb pressed high, and had to nearly stop touching himself at all, mesmerized by the slick reflections of Geralt’s tongue still at work, in and around what his fingers were doing.

“I didn’t say you could stop, Bard.” Renfri chastised, and Jaskier pulled himself gently, once, twice, and had to stop again.

“I’m, I’m sorry, I’m too close. Please can I, m- Renfri, _please_?”

Her grin was positively feral.

“You really can’t wait? You’re really going to finish, just from this? Just from watching-” she broke off with a gasp, as Jaskier saw lines of tension pop out on Geralt’s lovely forearm, the witcher curling his fingers inside her, to press just right. Renfri scratched the nails of her free hand across his shoulders in retaliation, and Jaskier saw his cock jump. The witcher groaned, Renfri moaned.

And Jaskier came absolutely all over himself.

**Author's Note:**

> That's it for now, my friends, and it's still Monday in my timezone, so I win.
> 
> Also the (now Canon, I have decided) bit about textiles and dye and ichor comes from this post:
> 
> https://flootzavut.tumblr.com/post/613483015437533184/oh-i-love-this
> 
> And in my reblog I said I was gonna use that idea on every fic from then on, and I have now done so. Because it's a very good explanation.


End file.
